


oil leak

by thedevilbites



Category: The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Blood is also squid ink apparently, Blood is cheap ketchup thoughts, F/M, Just your regular human blood bank stuff, Kidnapping, Minor ankle fetish maybe kinda, Psycho!Klaus and attracted to psycho!Elena vibes, Sexual Content, you know how it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:55:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26049133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilbites/pseuds/thedevilbites
Summary: But he’s—hazy. And slightly pixelated. A pointillism painting. Blurry around the edges when she gets too close, and she’s not exactly sure what she’s supposed to be looking at.
Relationships: Elena Gilbert/Klaus Mikaelson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34





	oil leak

**Author's Note:**

> the purely self-indulgent klena fic i know you have all been waiting for
> 
> you're welcome

She inhales shakily through her nose, then a short burst out through her mouth as quietly as she can. 

Elena’s told this is supposed to be relaxing. Breathing. It must be. _Has_ to be. She just hasn’t reached enlightenment yet—or whatever that one red-headed instructor from her 7 am yoga class prattles on about. Except she doesn’t. _Prattle,_ that is. It’s more of a hushed, airy whisper. Her yoga teacher is like that. Maybe all of them are like that, actually. All soft and dainty and loose, with a voice that reminds Elena distinctly of that first sticky droplet of condensed milk—

 _“Jesus.”_ Apparently _breathing_ doesn’t help when you’re tied to a chair, and forced to give pints of blood to an unhinged psychopath. 

“What’s that, love?” Said psychopath turns around, flapping a hand distractedly over his shoulder as he eyes her. 

Elena blinks, and the crowd of vampires behind Klaus is already gone. 

“I forgot how much this hurt.” She grits, glancing up at him, futilely trying to keep her voice light. Aloof. Airy, like her yoga teacher. 

“Well, I wouldn’t say this is supposed to be a comfortable experience,” he murmurs, glancing at her, then briefly at the filled IV bags lying on the floor next to her. 

Elena follows his gaze. She’s surprised at just how _dark_ her blood is, almost black. Inky. She desperately tries not to think of her middle school squid dissection. But, no, that was more of a thin, sluicy liquid and this...this is something else, less viscous, something _thick._ And heavy. Sticky, too, she can see it congealing at the bottom of the bag, greasing the plastic like a bottle of cheap ketchup—

She’s nauseous. Nauseated. As in, _overcome with a sudden wave of nausea._ Her stomach churns. She pinches her eyes together, and prays that she doesn’t throw up, that would be embarrassing, not to mention—

“Elena?”

“Huh?” She snaps her head up. He’s somehow behind her, hands braced on the back of the metal folding chair. 

“I was saying, that maybe you should rethink the way you ask for certain privileges.” Klaus leans over her. She can feel his chest pressed to the back of her head. 

He keeps talking. She should be listening. But—but he’s playing with the long bone of her clavicle, almost subconsciously, arm resting possessively on the junction of her shoulder and her neck. Klaus pinches her collarbone between his index finger and thumb, fingernails scraping along her skin, following the bone. As if he’s tracing it. Poking at it. It’s not entirely pleasant. Too hot. The cuff of his shirt is scratchy, like he’s trying to make her _itch._

Maybe he is. 

Maybe he isn’t. 

She shifts, crosses and uncrosses her legs in the chair. She’s wearing shorts. The back of her thighs scrape uncomfortably against the cool metal. Maybe he doesn’t know that she hasn’t had sex in six months. Maybe—she looks up.

He’s stopped talking. Looking expectantly down at her, and Elena realizes she’s missed something. 

“I’m sorry, what was that?” She plasters on her best plasticky, cheerleader smile. Teeth pulled back wide, gums reared. But, in a nice way. In an _inviting way._

Klaus purses his lips, looks like he’s going to scold her, but then repeats, _slowly,_ enunciating as if he’s indulging a small child, “I _said,_ what were you expecting, a five-star hotel?”

Elena blinks. She looks at the IV needle leeching into her wrist, the dented folding chair, appraises the dimly-lit room—abandoned garage? jail cell? run-down strip mall?—he’s brought her to.

“Yes.” She deadpans, voice cold. Wrinkling her forehead to look more put-out. Hopefully more intimidating. She’d cross her arms over her chest, too, if they weren’t tied to the armrests. 

Klaus looks surprised for a moment, then slides away from her. She blinks, and he’s in her face. Crouching down. Eye-level. 

She inhales sharply. He doesn’t breathe, obviously, but if he did, she’d be sharing. _Stealing._ His breath. His oxygen. His space. 

Klaus just stares at her, face impassive. She hates how he does that. How he can do that. Grind his emotions down to nothing like he’s getting veneers, smooth away the thin coating of his expressions. 

His expressions are _expressionless._

He’s touching her collarbone again. She doesn’t remember him moving. It doesn’t feel the same, either. It feels—he’s rubbing patterns into her skin, deft smooth, circular motions, but he keeps pressing a little too hard, as if he’s trying to bruise her.

Maybe he is. 

Maybe he isn’t.

Klaus smiles at her, but the corners of his eyes don’t crinkle. It looks flat. Disingenuous. 

“Well, love, let’s get you that hotel room.”

Then he straightens, and backhands her so hard she falls into something black. Dark. Darker than dark. 

_Inky._

—

Pillows underneath her head and warm, freshly-pressed sheets are much _much_ more comfortable than the “dodgy shithole” (Klaus’ words) they were just in. 

Plus, she doesn’t have a concussion after Klaus hit her, so she supposes she should thank him for that, too.

She’s also still—everything’s _fuzzy,_ and she feels, she feels—dazed. Oddly disconnected. Untethered. Like she’s melting into the air around her. Slipping away. 

The IV in her arm is uncomfortable. Her skin _crawls,_ and no hotel is going to help her with that, no matter how famous The Ritz is.

Elena rolls her head to the side, slouches into the pillows and stares at the needle. It’s halfway hidden beneath her skin, but she can still see the start of it before it disappears. She swallows. She may be drooling. There’s a sour taste in her mouth. She wants to rip the IV out, but the room tilts on its side when she tries to get up. 

Elena sleeps instead. 

There’s not much else she can do, anyway.

—

She isn’t sure if she’s awake, or still dreaming. Maybe she’s lost somewhere in the middle. Floating. Sinking. 

But it’s dark and quiet and a sort of sticky-warm, like dipping your finger into a jar of honey and then licking it off, tongue pawing relentlessly at the sweetness. 

She lifts her head, gently. The room is grey. It must be night, or very early in the morning. There’s a strip of light on the floor. She lifts her hands in front of her face, as if to check that she’s still intact, then turns her head. 

Klaus is lying next to her. She should be scared.

But he’s—hazy. And slightly pixelated. A pointillism painting. Blurry around the edges when she gets too close, and she’s not exactly sure what she’s supposed to be looking at. 

“Hi,” she croaks, voice gravelly, like her throat is sore from sleep. 

“Hello, love,” Klaus echoes, voice taking on a strange, hushed quality. Not quite a whisper, but almost.

Elena chews on the inside of her cheek, tries to remember the last time she heard him whisper. She can’t. He’s rarely ever quiet, and he rarely ever slows down. It’s odd. 

She twists on her side to get a better look at him, not exactly sure what to say. 

He’s doing it again. Carrying that expressionless expression.

She reaches out, and pokes at the muscle of his arm, impulsively. Klaus raises an eyebrow.

“I wanted to check that you’re still here.” She says flippantly, by way of explanation. “Still with me.” _Alive,_ she was going to say, but screws her mouth shut, hand falling limp. 

“I am.” A pause. “Here, that is.”

“Sometimes it doesn’t feel that way.” She mumbles, hating how she sounds. Pained. And whiny. _Insulted._

“What does it feel like, then?”

“Like,” Elena exhales wearily, turns to lie on her back, hands clasped in front of her as she stares into space, “like you only want me for my blood.”

Silence. 

“Um, sweetheart?” He sounds like he’s trying not to laugh at her.

“Yes?” 

“I _do_ only want you for your blood.”

Elena scowls at the ceiling. It’s a slightly lighter shade of grey than the rest of the room. “No, you don’t.”

“I’m a tad confused as to how the kidnapping, brutal death threats, and bags full of your blood gave you the wrong idea.”

“You’re the one with the wrong idea,” she says petulantly, debating just how immature she’ll seem if she sticks her tongue at him.

“I suppose you’re implying that I have an ulterior motive, is that it?”

Elena snorts. “You always have an ulterior motive.”

“You know me well.” 

“I do.” 

“Right, well, what is it then?”

“What?”

“My ulterior motive, love.”

Elena wrinkles her nose. “I’m...not sure yet. But, it’s obviously something nefarious.”

“Obviously. What else could I have planned for you, other than a slew of heinous deeds.”

She glances at him out of the corner of her eye, bottom lip caught between her teeth, “Nefarious, and quite possibly lecherous.” 

“Ah, yes.” The bed creaks as Klaus shifts slightly besides her, “And you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“What’s that?”

“Something _lecherous.”_

She blinks, and feels a hand on her ankle. He’s suddenly at the foot of the bed. Elena scrambles onto her elbows just as Klaus’ fingers wind around her other foot, and she raises her knees, jerks away from him on instinct. 

It does nothing. Obviously. She snaps her head to look at him, mouth dry. Her throat hurts when she swallows, or maybe that’s just her chest. She can’t tell anymore.

He’s smirking broadly at her, eyes shining. Glinting. _Scintillating._ The air around her feels heavy. Charged with— _something,_ Elena’s not quite sure what. 

She slumps forward a little. She stops moving. It doesn’t feel quite like giving up. 

His hand is warm. 

Sickeningly so. Almost as if the palm of his hand is clammy, but Elena doesn’t think vampires can sweat. It’s—disconcerting. Damp, but not damp. Like a raw egg left out in the sun, dripping onto her ankle, down the plane of her foot, squishy in between her toes.

She’s nauseous again. 

Klaus taps the inside of her right ankle, once and firm, and she narrows her eyes at him, “You wouldn’t.”

“Ah, you’re the one who claims to know me so well, darling, so what do you think?” He smiles at her, all teeth, and it feels like a test. Like there’s something important that she’s missed out on. 

Elena raises her chin. “I think you only drink from the willing.”

Klaus cocks his head at her, eyes blank. “And why, pray tell, would you think that?”

Elena hesitates. “Well—” she starts, feeling like she’s stumbling into dangerous territory, “It’s just—a feeling.” 

“You’re willing to bet your life on a feeling? My, my, you Petrova girls _are_ naive, aren’t you?”

“You won’t kill me,” she murmurs, even as her chest seizes up and her chin wobbles. 

Klaus eyes her for a long moment. His grip on her ankles tighten. “I’ll do other things, though.”

Elena exhales shakily. Her brain feels muddled. Addled. _Stuck,_ as if her breaks don’t work. A little voice in her head should be telling her that this is a bad idea, the _worst_ idea, but—she can’t _think._

She clears her throat. Scrapes her teeth against her tongue. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. 

“Is it going to hurt?”

“No,” Klaus shakes his head, then levels her with a look, “unless you want it to.”

That—is something that she really shouldn’t be considering. 

She huffs, flops down on the bed, then flings herself upright just as quickly. “I—,” she swallows, “want it.”

“Want what, love?” 

Her mouth falls open. 

He smirks up at her. She stares, gaping.

“Shut up, and bite me, Klaus.”

“Whatever the lady desires,” she hears him murmur, before his back arches and he bows down low over her ankle. 

She nearly yelps. She’s wired. She’s nervous. She’s so fucking _jittery._

He runs a finger over the smooth plane of her foot. It tickles, slightly. 

“Relax, love.” His tone is calm, placating. 

She lies down. He licks her ankle, experimentally. His tongue is warm. Like tepid water washing over her. She fists the sheets, squeezes them like it’s a stress ball.

When he bites her, she doesn’t even feel it, at first. And then—her head falls back, slinks into the pillows. 

It doesn't feel like he’s drinking her blood, exactly. He’s _stealing,_ methodical pulls and tugs and scratches at her foot that remind her of being licked by her neighbor’s cat. It’s—magnetic. His teeth scrape a muscle. He's _chewing._ Gnawing on the slender bone of her ankle as if he’s a fucking vulture picking her bare of meat.

She jolts, suddenly, when he growls, adjusts his posture, and sinks deeper into her flesh.

She hisses.

He does it again. 

Something stings. Maybe he bit the bone too hard, but—it’s _good._ So _so good,_ and she’s—

She _keens._ She’s delirious. 

Elena relaxes her ankle, lifts it higher up to his mouth. “More,” she whimpers, knees sprawled, even as she feels herself falling and spinning and _spiraling_ into the cushions. 

It’s like she’s fading away. Dissipating into the atmosphere. A disarray of dust particles floating in the air.

She doesn’t remember Klaus unlatching from her leg. She remembers looking down, though, neck trembling from the effort. Her right leg is slick with blood, ankle drenched. It looks black in the lighting, like an oil spill frothing from her body inside out. 

She wants to dip her fingers into it, and she wants to look for Klaus, but she doesn’t have the energy to do either. Something warm and sticky nags at her from between her legs. She wonders if it's blood, or something else. Elena stares at the ceiling, watches the soft pixels of grey merge and divide like cells undergoing mitosis. 

She can still see them when she closes her eyes, little dots shifting and simmering on the backs of eyelids. 

Her ankle is healed in the morning. Fresh. Sparkling clean. Like a shiny new toy. 

She can’t stop touching it.

Klaus keeps his eyes on her, uncharacteristically solemn, as she runs a finger over the hollow ridges of her bone, and wonders what she tastes like.

**Author's Note:**

> did i spend a big chunk of my day writing this when i should have been sleeping? yes, yes i did.
> 
> @thedevilbites on tumblr, come chat about sleep deprivation (or something equally riveting) with me!


End file.
